


Measuring Their Disorder

by merr



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Episode Related, M/M, Mental Illness, Physical Abuse, S1E7 Measure of Disorder, Self-Loathing, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merr/pseuds/merr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman warned him and, somehow, some part of Peter was counting on the follow-through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measuring Their Disorder

Peter's eyebrows drew together as Letha shrugged -- he really _couldn't_ make his stomach growl when he wanted to, but he touched her hair gently, admiring the soft strands and her soft brand of strangeness.

His mind drifted back, earlier into the day, at the fucked up blood note he'd found in his locker. The look on Roman's face as he walked by, demanding with his demeanor that Peter join him for a smoke. When he put the cigarette between his lips, he thought of how much he missed Roman's hands on his mouth, his throat, his body.

It was hard, beyond hard, but he told Roman no, that he wanted out. Roman was shocked at first, then apologized for leaving Peter trapped with the cops, admitted to being an asshole but... it wasn't enough. _I wasn't walking away from something stupid. I was walking away from something dangerous. Someone dangerous._

Peter was confused -- by Roman, about Roman. It still didn't make sense to him, even as he tried to communicate what he wanted _for_ Roman: a chance to start over, to calm down, to air out and... find stable ground.

 _Of course he took it the wrong way,_ Peter thought, near numb with loneliness even as Letha drifted to sleep on his side. _His temper is..._ When the young gypsy snorted, the pregnant girl beside him shifted, protesting quietly until he rested his large hand on her shoulder, rubbed it softly while shushing her. As his own gray eyes slipped shut and he could see Roman's as he threatened him about Letha. Even there, in the doorway, near campus, trying to close out Roman's verbal abuse, he'd gotten hard. Looking up, body aching for Roman to touch him, he'd felt a spark of hope -- until Roman'd said, "You're _not_ better than me."

Then, well... it wasn't much but it was just enough pain to help him close Roman out, just a little bit. Peter flicked his cigarette and stalked off, the words ringing in his head. The first time they'd _\--fucked, think of it as fucked and it won't sting so much--_ , Roman had growled into his ear the whole time about how perfect Peter was, how honest, how much better a person the long-haired man was in every regard.

...He'd really felt it, when he was near Letha, kissing her, inside her. Felt, temporarily, that he was somehow worth while, accepted by someone at least half as outlandish as he was. What he liked the most was that she made him laugh -- she was forward but sweet and it was refreshing. Different from what he'd gotten from Roman for so long, and before Roman, from no one in particular. He also knew, and felt like a user for it, that Roman would be on his heels as soon as he figured out where his beautiful, blonde cousin was.

He tightened his grip on Letha, gently, pushing her hair out of her face with his other hand, "Hey, hey. Open your eyes, sleepyhead." Letha grumbled, mumbling something about warmth and fur, but Peter just snorted as he sat up, taking her with, "You'd better get dressed an' get back to your folks' place before they freak."

Those pretty lips pouting, eyes narrowing, "You're kicking me out? Into the rain?"

Peter shook his head then tucked his hair behind his ears, feeling around for her shirt, "You know that's not why, don't be a cruel mistress."

She laughed then, unfolding pale, shapely legs and tugging her layers back on. She murmured through a smile, "You're gonna take me home, right? A poor thing like me is bound to get killed and eaten out there..."

Dark eyebrows furrowed and Peter demanded levelly, "Don't joke about that. It's... it's not funny. I don't want to think about you like that."

Letha was about to tease him, but she stopped when she saw how pale his face was, how tightly his hands gripped the edges of his coat. "Hey... hey, Peter, okay. I won't, I promise. Okay?" She moved close, took his coat and helped him put it on, "You'll walk me back, I'll be safe. Right?"

Peter nodded, eyes refocusing as he came back down to earth. He let a grin slip across his thin lips as he grabbed an umbrella, "I live to serve, madam." Her laugh carried over the rain as he ushered them out the door, shutting it firmly behind them.

By the time Peter was halfway back home, it was still raining. Pouring, in fact, and he was ducked down into the upturned collar of his coat, hunching under the umbrella, wrestling with himself. He really _did_ care about Letha. Felt... protective. He wasn't kidding about the whole package deal -- he'd never go into something like that unless he meant it. And he was scared for Letha, being a part of that family, those... psychos. He knew... _hoped_ Roman would never hurt her, but at the rate her cousin was descending into utter madness, Peter didn't trust the taller youth to keep a protective enough eye on her anymore.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes with his free hand, growling a bit. Roman. That was a whole other problem. He was drawn to him like a... like a lemming to a fucking cliff. An anchor to water. _Fuck._ As he began down the stairs toward the trailer, he saw that the lights were still off; looked like his mother'd elected to stay out and celebrate. As he stepped off the last stair and turned toward the warmth of inside, someone slammed against him, bending him halfway over the railing and stealing his breath with the force of it. Hands, ripping the umbrella away, tangling into his hair, jerking his head back. Roman's voice: "I warned you about fucking Letha, Peter. I warned you."

As the gypsy's nostrils flared, his nose jumped up in a snarl as he tried to catch his breath and insult Roman at the same time, "Fuck 'em and -- huh -- jump? Couldn't get your --huh -- rocks off, had to come over and rough-ough someone up?" His heart was racing, his canvas jacket already soaked through. He squinted against the rain, bracing his hands against the railing and pushing back with all his might.

Roman yelped as he slipped back, tumbling off the step to fall on his ass in the mud with an undignified slap. Peter turned on him then, locking eyes for a moment before backing toward the trailer door, "Careful, Roman -- you'll ruin your shoes."

He couldn't fathom why he was antagonizing the other youth, couldn't come to grips with why he was already half-hard from the violence. _Because you're fucked up, Pete, fucked in the head. He might fucking kill you for real this time, he might. Did you see his goddamn pupils--!_

"Been doin' some drugs and fuckin' some cheerleaders, Roman? Busy night..." Peter only hesitated for a second as his heel brushed up against the first step, peering at the blonde man shifting to sit cross-legged in the mud, shapely mouth parting to let out a quiet string of laughter. The hairs all along Peter's neck and spine jumped up, followed by whole-body gooseflesh.

The brunet turned quickly then, reactions more animal than human as fear froze his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He threw the door open, slipped inside and slammed it behind him, flicking the lock before backing away; as the ringing in his ears went down, he could hear the water dripping half on the carpet, half on the tile. He crept forward, slowly, trying to keep his distance from the window but also peer out the door. The next thing he knew, he was tripping backward into the kitchen table then crunching to the floor, dizzy from a broken nose and shivering from the blast of cool air gushing into the trailer.

"You fucking idiot, why would you stand right behind the door like that?"

His attacker's voice was distant, almost calm, and Peter knew that was a bad sign; he tried to pinpoint Roman through the reflexive tears running down his face, pulling himself back in a scrambling crabwalk. The tall man smoothed his hair back from around his face, reached forward to take a chair, then turned, closed the broken door and wedged said chair underneath the handle, "There. That should work for now."

Peter was halfway under the table, knowing he was cornering himself but too disoriented to do anything about it. He'd been a fucking idiot to think even for a moment he wanted Roman to find out about he and Letha. _There's something wrong with him..._ Peter could sense it, drugs aside. Something had snapped in half, rattled loose, been freed -- and he had a sinking feeling he was about to get the brunt of it.

Roman took his coat off, slowly, draping it over the armchair by the door. He took a step closer, rolling up his sleeves one at a time, mouth pursed, eyes unblinking. Peter's eyes, however, were darting every which way, trying to find a way out now that the tears had somewhat subsided. As he made a move to stand up, Roman was on him in a flash, grabbing his ankle hard and tugging him roughly from under the table, toward the couch, "Ah, ah, none of that now."

Groaning at the trail of blood smearing onto the floor from his face, pain glittered all the way down Peter's spine in bursts, "Ro-Roman--" He wanted to say more but he couldn't find the words, couldn't decide what it was he wanted -- his desires were so at odds with one another. He felt a schism, fear and lust growing in equal measures.

Roman rolled him over then before pulling him up by the lapels of his soaked jacked only to slam his head into the floor as hard as possible, voice remaining steady, "Yes, Peter?"

Peter coughed, then, lungs confused as they tried to pull air in but got less air and more blood. A few spots of pink spittle dusted Roman's features and he shook Peter once, twice, before slamming him into the thinly carpeted floor again, "You're disgusting, stop that."

The gypsy thrashed then, sluggish as he was desperate, but Roman barely blinked as he removed the struggling youth's belt, looped it around his wrists, saw flesh begin to bruise when he tightened it brutally. As Peter brought a knee up, trying to nail him in the groin, Roman narrowed his eyes, grabbed a ceramic ashtray off the coffee table and matter-of-factly smashed it against Peter's skull.

"That's not very nice, Rumancek. You could really hurt someone, doing that."

Slow. He felt slow. Water? No, too cold to be under water. Not heavy enough. But... there was something heavy, on him; his face hurt, too. Pinned? Scared. Noises then -- panting, rainfall. His world turned over, rolled, and he smelled wet ashes, felt carpet grinding against his searing nose. He saw one of the light gray shards of pottery and mumbled thickly, "You could've killed me with tha'..."

Nerve endings screamed as Roman pulled his hips up with one hand, pressing his face more firmly into the carpet with the other planted across the back of the long-haired man's neck. Heavy breathing, but no response; Peter grunted as Roman took the pressure off his neck to pull his sopping wet jeans down, forcing the wounded man's legs wide with a muddy, soaked chino-clad knee. Peter'd tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond right, which brought a terrified thought, like a slow-moving bubble through wax, up into Peter's head: what if Roman had paralyzed him? Broken his neck, or--

When he felt a finger force its way into him, barely slicked with hell-knows what fluid, he hissed. When he felt Roman's other hand ghost over his ass, up his spine to knot itself in his hair, he registered a small measure of relief, too. _At least I can feel--Fuck!_ The burn of a second finger, two strokes, then a third finger forced -- it blew away relief and replaced it with both horror and a rush of inexplicable arousal. _This... this is so wrong. No one..._ no one _enjoys getting raped. Only... Only--_

Peter's disjointed thoughts were shattered as Roman pressed the weeping head of his prick up against the his entrance, leaning his weight onto him as his hand caught Peter's half-hard arousal and squeezed it, "You're all kinds of fucked up, Peter. So. Fucked. Up."

Peter tried to blink away the water running from Roman's clenched fist in his hair, tried to keep the mixture of ashes and rainwater from blinding him. He yelled into the carpet; a low, wordless keen as Roman pushed into him, slowly but relentlessly, giving him no time to adjust before tugging back out and pushing home again, this time fast and repeatedly shallow, "You love this, don't you, you fucking freak. Gypsy scum. Nasty little _monster_."

Peter's eyes rolled back into his head for a moment as Roman pulled his skull back further, the angle cutting what airflow he could get even scarcer. His mind was blessedly simple, pain and stimulation both drowning out the flow of a million and one thoughts and data points Peter fought with on a daily basis. He couldn't think in words in this moment; he existed only in sensation, emotion.

"Answer me, you faggot. You slut!" Roman shook him by the scalp before readjusting his grip to the back of Peter's head, leaning back on his own heels so he could drag the other man up enough to growl, "On your elbows, whore. Do it!" He punctuated the order with two hard snaps of his hips and Peter felt a groan tumble out of his chattering mouth as he followed instructions. Roman pushed his head down then, pushing his hair in the wrong direction before slipping the hand down and around Peter's neck, squeezing just once but hard enough to make Peter choke and cough.

Roman watched Peter's shoulder blades jump, felt internal muscles clamp down every time the gypsy coughed. He felt himself harden more, to the point of pain, and bit his own mouth, hard, tasting blood. He planted his hands on Peter's shoulders, gripped him by the collar bones and fucked into him over and over, as hard as he could, "I'm gonna paint your insides, Peter, and you'll love it so much you're gonna fucking _come_ when I _do_ it."

Peter could feel his hair leave and return to his cheek in opposite time as the jarring of his body; his prick twitched at Roman's voice, hard, leaking and he gasped for air as Roman's force collapsed his knees, forced him to slouch over his elbows until they, too, collapsed under him. The other man was hammering his prostate, over and over, and Peter knew Roman was doing it on purpose, growling more obscenities at him, moving his hands from bruising shoulders to shuddering hips.

A warm breath at his ear, Roman's voice, "Touch your prick, Peter. Put your hand around it and squeeze like it's my cousin's pussy."

Peter swore then, hands clenching into fists as anger and shame both flared bright behind his eyelids, "Fuck you, Roman! Why w-would you say--"

Roman belted him across the back of the head with a fist before descending on him with his entire body, smothering him down, grinding Peter into the carpet with the weight of violent thrusts, "Why did _you_ have to fuck her, Peter? Why did _you_ try to cut me out, _Peter_? I need _you_ more than she does, Peter! _You!_ You..."

His head was swimming again and the brunet was sure the ocean was nearby because that roaring was coming closer and closer, louder and louder in red, hot waves, about to drag him under. When he heard Roman say his name once, then again, his face twisted up; when he heard it a last, third time, Peter finally let go. His hands were numb and the tingly blankness was spreading, but his back and ass were still on fire with the contact of Roman's body. He held his breath as he felt the other man stiffen, heard his aggressor groan completion; Peter felt something inside himself fall apart as he came too, in slow, painful pulses. A thought chased Peter down the rabbit hole as Roman caught his breath and extracted himself: _Is it still considered dysfunctional if the disorders fit one another?_


End file.
